Brief Song of the Almost-Lost

Less to say in winter,

to be sure. Less to consider and less

appears beneath the debris that still

somehow collects. We connect,

briefly. We fan out like the tail

of a cornered animal, though not

so cornered as it thinks. The things

said in context; trail left behind. I’ve

decided to follow my mother’s advice:

guilt. Nothing else. Nothing more

to be transcribed as the bottle

bleeds out. Nothing more to say

about the past. Once, I studied

all the long forgotten kings; gathered

what few fragments remained

of their tongue: brief song of the almost-

lost; mothers putting to rest their sons.